


all waiting is long

by pearypi_e



Category: Fate/Grand Order, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon-Compliant, Character Study, F/M, Ophelia-centric, unfortunately, unrequited kirsch/ophe but can also be taken as requited. who knows, yyyy???? i think it's a character study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:34:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28030980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearypi_e/pseuds/pearypi_e
Summary: She learns to get used to such things. Scratching crusted blood off of her face. Staring out of the window into a dull winter, listless. The sun shining into her room, harsh and invading; finding cloud-covered autumn days far more comforting, falling asleep to the rain falling like bullets against her window.
Relationships: Ophelia Phamrsolone/Kirschtaria Wodime
Comments: 8
Kudos: 21





	all waiting is long

Most magi are strangers to surgery.

It is a process strictly related to science, and therefore one that should be avoided at all costs by magus standards. Even then, most magi are so arrogant as to consider themselves too perfect for such a practice.

The Phamrsolone family prides itself on its humility.

When Ophelia stepped back out of the operating room, her new eyepatch already soaked with blood, her arms trembling from the pain, she walked by her mother’s side, far too small to ever show a shade of cruelty or inspire a gleam of respect.

She learns to get used to such things. Scratching crusted blood off of her face. Staring out of the window into a dull winter, listless. The sun shining into her room, harsh and invading; finding cloud-covered autumn days far more comforting, falling asleep to the rain falling like bullets against her window.

The rise and fall of the moon is the only way she bothers to keep track of time—and time washes away every season until she can feel nothing but her, the sun, and the quiet ticking of the clock in the corner of her room. 

She wants because she is told to want, and tries because she is told to try. 

Perhaps this is fitting, that the jeweled eye that chooses fate is the thing that seals her own, trapped within a prison of her own impeccable design—or so she might think, _if_ she were inclined to care.

\---

News of Chaldea’s existence in the Clock Tower first comes in whispers, and then in droves. Flyers pinned to cork boards outside of classrooms, students excitedly whispering about technology and opportunities and rumors—rumors about _summoning_ , Ophelia’s own field of study. The intrigue is enough to compel her into an interview.

Marisbury is charismatic, and she is persuaded a bit more easily than she’d like; but if working for the good of humanity is such a thankless task, who is better suited for the job than she? All clauses considered, she’s sure to get used to Antarctica quickly.

\---

"You are a good person."

Not "thank you", because he didn't care for the work she did for him. Not a "good job", because he didn't care about her job, or even notice how hard she was working.

_You are a good person._

Who she was, not the things that she did—that was all that Kirschtaria Wodime noticed, annoyingly enough. It must be pity that causes him to say these things, for her own wilting capabilities, and so she resolves to apply herself even _more_ and prove him wrong.

Yet every time he glances _down_ at her, something turns in her stomach, and she can feel her chest flutter with what must be some sickness or curse—she won’t spare him the trouble of trying to find out the cause, no. She will wait, and let everything wash away with time.

It doesn’t.

\---

"Black tea?"

Her voice, to her dismay, comes out in a pitiful whisper. _Can’t go on like this,_ some exhausted part of her brain wheezes.

He pauses. "Yes,"

"I obtained some good tea leaves.”

His mouth curves into an expression she can’t recognize on him—or at least one she, at first, can’t name. He always seemed so detached; even a fool could’ve seen that his face was not one made for externalizing emotion—a blank slate, but not one to be painted on.

“I figured I should give them to you and Peperoncino to enjoy."

She glances up to see him smiling. Kirschtaria Wodime, _smiling._

She stands up a little straighter, frustrated, then quiets, nods, and accepts the gift, her cheeks uncomfortably hot.

She supposes that he might be growing on her.

(It numbs to even acknowledge the thought.)

\---

The inferno made her eyes water. The distant voice echoing in her ears seemed far too big and far too small at the same time, like the giant was both in front of her and all around her, the flames licking at her skin.

The fire died down, and yet she still wished to cover her eyes. Seeing him bruised and bloodied was a whole new sort of sickness.

The rest of the A-Team would be revived. He would pay the price himself. That was a choice he made as easy as breathing.

Sometimes, she wonders how he does it. Place the burden of other people on his shoulders, pay the price for their mistakes himself, even when he wasn't asked, or ordered, or obligated.

She supposes that that's just the kind of person Lord Kirschtaria is.

\---

Even an act so simple as taking a breath brings tears to her eyes.

Outside, she is vaguely aware of her presence on Surtr's shoulder; smoke and sulfur stinging the inside of her nose, scorching heat making the air in front of her hazy.

Surtr boasts of destruction and carnage, and gives promises of fire and death. She’s long prided herself on being indisposed to excess, and yet still she can’t help but lean closer when he whispers of triumph.

Scandinavia has long been reduced to a stagnant slaughterhouse, enamored with its own clemency, and so it is only right that it is burned to the ground, isn’t it? Best to just stop being a waste of time and space and disappear already. How pragmatic, how practical, how cruel.

Somewhere in the landscape of her own mind, she thinks that this is what he would have wanted. She’ll clear out everything that stands in his path, and never once will she bother him with even the slightest inconvenience. 

"Hello? Hello? _Mademoiselle_...?"

Heat-singed and tired, she cannot speak against Napoleon—every protest a tangle of syllables, weak assertions of herself, and yet beyond all of the white noise she can hear a steady _crack_ . The silly Archer’s voice booms in her ears, but she is too exhausted to pick out individual words—she can only muster the energy to pay attention to the _cracks_ , and after a few more minutes of listening to his drivel, she can hear whatever it was _shattering_ —

—and her consciousness comes back in a rush of color. 

_Foolish Archer._

She allows herself to fall.

\---

There is a kind of horrible humanity in dying for yourself, even when you lived your entire life for someone else.

"Ophelia," Mash breathes, her face flushed with pink, Ophelia's hands clutched tightly in hers. "I'm sure that's what you call love."

The rims of her eyes sting fiercely.

Ophelia didn't have time to get used to _that_ kind of pain.

\---

Only a few hours later, in a city thousands of kilometers away, the inevitable question comes from him, with only a small fragment of hesitation— _Where is Ophelia?_

The answer comes with no gentleness; even if she put in effort, the woman could only provide a mockery of respect. _She didn't make it,_ the fox wheedles, _unfortunately._

Is he really so naive?

Living for love, at least, is far easier than living for yourself.

Dying for love is much the same.

 _Did you see me as some sort of great figure?_ he murmurs, when there is no longer anyone around to hear him. 

_I will strive to live up to that._

At least, now is as good a time as any to begin again.

**Author's Note:**

> sO.
> 
> this originally started out as me trying to focus on the question 'is love a choice?' but apparently god had other ideas and now here we are
> 
> thank you kae for listening to my brainrot, pallan for looking over this, and everyone else who left a comment, a kudo, or even just clicked on this fic!
> 
> find me on twitter @pearypi_e i won't eat you i promise
> 
> edit: oh and uh. your ending theme(s) are 'gold rush' by taylor swift, 'religion' by lana del rey and 'teen idle' by MARINA and yes in that order. hope you guys enjoyed


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